On a dull and windy afternoon of the fourth day of September in the year of 1778, in my first month as parish priest at Amancey, a simple carriage arrived at the humble rectory I had just moved in. The driver, a rugged peasant, handed me a note. It was written by the abbess of a nearby nunnery at M., who was asking me to come as soon as I could to hear a confession of a dying nun. Their local priest, to whom they usually resorted in such spiritual emergencies, had been held up in Besançon for one reason or another and now the speed with which the dying woman was to make her way towards the eternal light, if that was to be granted her by our merciful Father, seemed to depend, in part, on me.
We set out without delay and made good progress till we reached Bolandoz. There, two huge trees felled by a recent wild storm blocked our way and the driver, who was occasionally hired by the sisters to do odd jobs and errands, announced the end of the journey. I had none of it and told him to think of a detour. Mumbling short, vigorous prayers – or curses – under his breath he obliged and soon we found ourselves on a country lane strewn with stones big enough to perilously jerk up the landau every few seconds. We were in a forest now, surrounded by what seemed to me complete darkness. I was wondering how the man was able to steer our vehicle, but I guessed it was the horses that must have taken over the task. What little moonlight we did get, when passing clouds were kind enough to make a little opening for it now and again, only compounded the feeling of gloom and danger.
After a quarter of an hour, the peasant reined in the horses, leaned into the side window and announced that the old nun was going to heaven anyway and he wouldn’t foolishly risk breaking a new carriage into fine pieces for the sake of her receiving an chance to apologise for being late once or twice to the Holy Mass. I cut him mid-sentence and announced that yes, he was going to risk exactly that. I ordered him to stick what he was paid for, and leave to me what I was ordained for. I added, having his enlightenment in mind, that it is often the case with confused or frightened souls that an old grave sin may sleep at their bottom and it is only the imminence of death that makes the soul realise what a dangerous, perhaps even lethal, burden it could be. And even though it might be enough to confess such a sin to God and ask Him to let the soul jettison the life-threatening cargo, confessing it to God and a priest is even better, because the power of absolution was granted to the Church by our Lord himself. With an angry lash of the whip, the man spurred on the horses and we carried on.
After a quarter of an hour, the peasant reined in the horses, leaned into the side window and announced that the old nun was going to heaven anyway and he wouldn’t foolishly risk breaking a new carriage into fine pieces for the sake of her receiving an chance to apologise for being late once or twice to the Holy Mass. I cut him mid-sentence and announced that yes, he was going to risk exactly that. I ordered him to stick what he was paid for, and leave to me what I was ordained for. I added, having his enlightenment in mind, that it is often the case with confused or frightened souls that an old grave sin may sleep at their bottom and it is only the imminence of death that makes the soul realise what a dangerous, perhaps even lethal, burden it could be. And even though it might be enough to confess such a sin to God and ask Him to let the soul jettison the life-threatening cargo, confessing it to God and a priest is even better, because the power of absolution was granted to the Church by our Lord himself. With an angry lash of the whip, the man spurred on the horses and we carried on.
When the battered and squeaking carriage made it to the convent, two hours later than expected, I was instantly taken to the nun’s cell, but instead of her confession I received her final gaze. Never had I seen such a gaze in a woman’s eyes: it was clear to me that what she had to share with me was not her sins, or the story of her life, but a secret – and judging by that look, a secret similar to which I had never heard before; or was going to after. Alas (for her sake) I was not to hear it, or any other word from her mouth, because even as I held her hand, she closed her eyes and expired.
What follows is an account of her life, such as I was able to establish in the course of a long investigation which I undertook soon afterwards and which eventually lead me to a day over 60 years back from the day when I first - and last, as it seemed - saw the woman who as a nun was known Rosalie; as a girl, Nicole; and as a fugitive, Danielle; but who in most other respects wasn’t really known to anyone at all.
Nicole was born in the parish of C.*, situated not a very far distance from mine. She was an only child of Mme V. Her father little was known. There were rumours in the village that he had been a soldier and that at some point he was a prisoner at Fort de Joux. Whether this is a fact or fable I was unable to confirm and as no one in the village had known or seen him at all, it’s best just to acknowledge that a father must have existed and leave it at that.
In such circumstances it should not surprise anyone that the mother doted on the girl. And even if Nicole were not an only child, Mme V.’s excessive love would have been justified. At the age of 15, when the story begins, the girl was the brightest, the most courteous – and the prettiest not only in the parish, but – some swore – within 20 miles around Besançon.
*after some consideration, I have decided to make anonymous most of the places and people that played some part in Nicole’s life. Not that this may make much difference, as the few details that I am going to provide, or have provided already, should suffice to establish many others, if a curious reader showed some diligence. Be it as it may, I thought it prudent that I should not make the task any easier.
